The moon is only dust: ribs and apples, but no betrayal. She is All reflection and ravening beauty. Her silence is invaded By the steady gush and thrum of our blood;We want our veins to whisper, to be as still asA canyon, running like a scar across the sand. We forget the wildness of our pain, the way our hearts shift to wolf or worm,The way our coyote screams echo through the desert;We stand along the shoreline, proud to behold her pearl, kicking away The tiny crabs warning our feet.Her fingers reach for us through the hungry waves.She will claim everything on this shore, or we will go on our own, Willing ourselves from animal to dust.

About the author:Kate Benchoff lives with her husband and son in Pennsylvania, where she spends too many hours grading essays and too few playing Legos. She has degrees in Philosophy and English Education, and tries to incorporate the "The Allegory of the Cave," Paulo Freire, or Sylvia Plath into casual conversation as frequently as possible. Her work has recently appeared in Literary Mama.